Congestion Confession

The congestion in my chest sounded like a cross between an idling Weed-Eater and the purring from my three-legged cat Tucker.  This is typically stage two of my seasonal cold, preceded by a scratchy throat and followed by sinus congestion that produces substances that come in a variety of textures and colors.  Alas that was not to be the case this time.  The chest congestion stuck around for several days longer than normal so after over-the-counter drugs proved futile, I swallowed what little pride I am able to hang onto in my life and made an appointment with my doctor. 

I showed up promptly at my appointed time and only waited for five minutes before the nurse came for me.  She made me step on the scale to get my weight and I was pleasantly surprised to see I had not gained anything.  When I do not feel well, my diet goes out the window and I treat myself to anything I want.  For the last five days I have subsisted on nothing but pizza, a variety of steaks, burgers and cookies that have Hersey’s Kisses instead of chocolate chips.  Every meal.   The fact that I gained nothing should perfectly illustrate my peak physical condition or the fact that I wore lighter clothes.  We might never know.

After checking my weight, we walked into the exam room and I was told to sit in a chair so we could get my blood pressure and temperature.  Both were normal so the nurse started updating my information on her laptop.  I freely admit that I am naïve when it comes to all things medical and most things technological.  Having said that, I still believe that writing things down on a chart is much easier than holding an entire computer in your arms while hen pecking out my answers to your questions with one hand.  Just because it has buttons, does not mean you have to use it. 

The nurse left me to my thoughts and eventually my doctor arrived.  I like my doctor, for we share a bond.  I came in for a physical earlier this year and he became the first man to ever touch the fellas.  In all of my prior physicals, my doctors skipped this part.  Remember, I am from Louisiana.  The world works differently there.  In this particular situation,  I did not know how to act, or react as it were.  On one hand, when I dropped my britches, I did not want to have too much to show because I am a married man and did not want my doctor to get the wrong impression.  On the other hand, I am a male with an ego so I hoped there was a little entertainment value.  First world problems, I digress.

The doctor performed his examination and after having me take deep breaths and then coughing, concluded that I had bronchitis.  This news immediately caused me flashbacks to my childhood when the word bronchitis meant shot.  I do not like shots, at all.  The last time I had bronchitis and needed a shot was 1989 and my mother had to promise me a copy of MC Hammer’s “Please Hammer Don’t Hurt Em” in order to cajole me back into the exam room.  She would always give me the same motherly line, that a shot would make me feel better faster than any oral medicine.  Whatever lady, I laugh in the face of instant gratification. 

I need not have worried though because the doctor opted for several prescription pills which at the time I appreciated.  After leaving the office and driving toward the pharmacy though, I found myself feeling wretched and regretting that I did not demand an injection.  Like only I can do, I latched onto the word “shot” and found myself repeating it ad nauseum until I was putting on my own Lil Jon and LMFAO concert.  Please see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vC--NX8252c#t=47s

This was yet another in a long line of unfortunate decisions but at least the driving public saw several sweet moves.

So here I sit, typing away and awaiting the arrival of sweet relief from my coughing pills.  I have not called my mother to tell her of my predicament because I do not need her telling me I might feel better if I did the little Hammer dance I used to perform for her.  No, I will sit here and wait. 

And wait some more.